No Angel
by newscaper
Summary: My 'Judas on a Pole' followup: On Christmas Eve, Booth struggles with his feelings for the women complicating his life when an unexpected visitor forces a moment of clarity. NOT the usual holiday fluff. COMPLETE
1. Coming Home

**A/N: Whiplash warning is in effect. Thanks to astridv for looking at this.**

Seeley Booth was driving home right in the middle of rush hour traffic along with every other poor bastard who'd had to put in a full day's work on Christmas Eve, squinting at the smeared headlights of the oncoming traffic. It was raining lightly and the cloud cover meant that it was almost full dark, but at least the unseasonably warm weather meant there was no snow or sleet to contend with. He didn't really have a right to grumble – not much -- as he was the one who'd decided to work today so he could take off a few of the days in the week between Christmas and New Years.

Rebecca was going to be dropping off Parker around six thirty so he would be able to have his son for the vigil Mass tonight then Christmas morning. Later tomorrow he'd take him home to his mother for Christmas dinner. Miracle of miracles, Rebecca had invited him too, and he'd felt welcomed enough to accept. He offered up a quick little prayer of thanks for the thaw in their relationship that had persisted even after he'd told her he no longer wanted to marry her. Her new boyfriend would be there, but Booth was determined not to get into any pissing contests. Parker was the most important thing, and, to be honest, the new 'kinder and gentler' Rebecca didn't deserve it.

Try as he might, however, his thoughts kept veering away from Parker and back to the clusterfuck that another aspect of his personal life was rapidly becoming. His driving went on autopilot…

Things with Cam were coming to a head, and he was just trying to make it through the holidays in one piece. He kicked himself for the hundredth, if not the thousandth time. _Kinda late to realize you shoulda kept your dick in your pants._ He'd fallen back into old habits with Cam, the non-threatening comfort of the familiar, not to mention some pretty damned good sex. Once things were rolling again, he'd even convinced himself the old feelings might be fully rekindled, to take up where they'd left off, but he'd been deluding himself. The previous incarnation of their relationship had faded away, more or less mutually, when he'd been transferred away from NYC. They'd both known they weren't serious enough, at least not yet, to try to make a go of a long distance relationship so they'd parted amicably. This time he hadn't been looking for anything serious when he'd hooked up with her after Rebecca, but somehow it had gone on for more than a one night stand with encores. Somewhere in the back of his mind he'd rationalized that this time there might be something more, that they might actually get serious.

However, over the last several weeks, he'd come to realize that was bullshit. Even though she was off to a rough start with the squints, he really did respect and like her. Hell, he truly cared for her, but he didn't love her. He now knew he wasn't ever going to. Sure, they were two consenting adults, but he increasingly felt like he was using her, even if she was more than willing. Call it Catholic guilt. Lord knew, he'd _long_ ago gotten over the whole premarital sex thing, but he really wasn't one for one night stands. That wasn't to say he hadn't had his share back in the day, but the fact was, as he'd grown older, they left him empty, if not ashamed. Sex should _mean_ something, should be part of something more, at least part of something that might be going somewhere. Even though he'd thought she'd known the score, catching a nut occasionally with Cam wasn't leaving him feeling good about himself, not at all.

Worse, now that he knew the prospect of something more was a non-starter from his end, it seemed Cam was wanting more. God help him, but he needed to find a way to back out of their 'arrangement' gracefully. He didn't know if it was possible, but he was determined to try. He really had been a damned fool to think he could mix business and pleasure. At the very least he'd had enough sense to know that spending too much time with her in the holidays would be a mistake. A few days prior, when they'd talked about Christmas plans, he'd talked about Parker and very deliberately _not_ included Cam even though it was clear she was expecting some sort of invitation. The next day she'd somewhat coolly informed him of her plans to spend a few days with friends in Manhattan. He'd breathed a sigh of relief at having begun the process of cooling things down without causing a scene, or at least not heating them up like a fucking idiot, but that was only one half of his holiday headaches.

The other half was Bones. Again, nothing that was her fault – it was entirely his.

Although she'd put a brave face on it, the recent visit from Max, with Russ' defection on top of it, had dealt her a blow. Worse, the two SOBs had done it to her just before Christmas, the time when all of her old baggage was closest to the surface. It broke his heart to see her retreating once again into Grinch mode, but this time there wasn't jack shit he could do about it. He'd all but begged her to accept Jack and Angela's invitation to celebrate with them at the bug guy's place. She'd halfheartedly agreed to consider it, but his effort was a poor substitute for what he really wanted, what he ached to do, which was to include her in Christmas himself. He knew in his gut he could get her to agree to join him, but he couldn't even try.

He could hardly give Cam the cold shoulder then promptly turn around and invite Bones. That way lay bad blood all around.

To be honest, Bones was the other reason, apart from simple fairness to Cam, that he was trying to disentangle himself from the pathologist.

His bond with Bones was just becoming far too strong – and it appeared that it might be becoming more than friendship. He had no idea if she was starting to feel the same way, or if she could or would get involved with a co-worker – hell, he and Cam should be the poster children for _not_ doing it – but he desperately needed some maneuvering room to figure out just what these feelings were, much less what in hell, if anything, he should do about them. It was room he didn't have as long as he was still playing footsie with Cam.

If there was to be anything between him and Bones, or if even if it proved impossible, he had to keep Cam from taking reprisals against her. In spite of her tough guy boss persona, Cam really wasn't the vindictive type, but he was up against simple human nature. His not knowing what in hell he was doing was not Bones' fault. He had to back off from Cam and then wait a decent interval before daring to proceed.

Besides, with all of her trust issues, the last thing he wanted to show Bones was that he would leave one woman for another at the drop of a hat.

_God dammit._

He'd sure created one helluva royal fucking mess…

Just then, he spotted the BP gas station near his apartment complex which forced him to quit woolgathering and consciously drive as it was time to emerge from the main traffic flow and get on the side street that would take him home. When he finally pulled into an empty slot not thirty yards from his front door, he'd already managed to get his head back around thoughts of Christmas with his son. The women would just have to wait, he thought, as he hopped down from the black SUV. He turned to retrieve the overcoat he hadn't bothered to put on and readied the door key in his hand.

He almost went to his mailbox first but decided screw it. Tomorrow was a holiday after all.

He fumbled a bit at first because the light in the breezeway was burned out, but he found and worked the dead bolt, then the main knob which he unlocked and turned to open the door in one smooth motion. He could barely see a thing, with only a little indirect light from the parking lot lamppost being reflected inside. Right hand still on the knob, he stepped into the darkened entryway beside the kitchen. He let go to shift the overcoat to his other arm, and reached to flick the light switch on the wall with his left.

_Click. _

The room stayed dark. None of the three bulbs in the overhead fixture came on.

_Shit. _

He hoped it was just a tripped breaker and not a power outage. _Merry fucking Christmas._ Parker was due in little over an hour. Guided by memory, he blindly headed toward the circuit breaker panel without waiting for his eyes to adapt.

Too late, he noticed the green LED clock on the microwave was still lit…

_KRANG!_

A sudden blow to the head made him see stars, but somehow he kept to his feet. In spite of the pain, he instinctively stepped aside, dropped the coat, and in a flash drew the short barreled .44 Magnum revolver from the cross-draw holster inside his waistband, but before he could find a target in the gloom another blow shattered the bones in his wrist. He staggered in agony and tried to retreat to the patch of light leading outside…

_KRANG!_

_All_ of the lights went out.

**A/N There is only one more chapter.**


	2. Awake

**A/N **

**The story isn't growing any longer as such, but I decided to go for another chapter break or two to prolong the agony :) Now it may be three or four chapters.**

At first Booth's world was nothing but pain. The worst headache of his life nearly blotted out the fact the right side of his face was on fire. His broken wrist was a distant third.

Slowly, his wits returned.

_Do nothing. Be cool._

His long ago Special Forces training in resisting 'interrogation' had taught him to make the most of the few seconds he might have before his captor realized he'd regained consciousness. He used the time to carefully take stock of his situation.

With great difficulty he pushed the overwhelming sensations into a box and closed the lid. The pain slowly subsided to a dull roar throbbing in time with his pulse. He kept his eyes closed for the moment, although he could tell from the red-black through his eyelids that the lights were back on. He assumed/hoped that he was still in his own apartment. He was bound in a standing position, probably tied to the 8 by 8 post at the end of the small bar where the kitchen transitioned to the living room.

His chin was down on his chest, but, instead of raising his head, he just listened.

He heard a low squeaking sound that stopped with an increase in the red light filtering through his eyelids. It was followed by a thud, a chuff of breath, and then the sound of a chair scraping across the floor.

Soft footsteps moved off to his left where he heard the squeals of several drawers being jerked opened and just as quickly slammed shut. Finally he heard the clinking sounds of what had to be his captor rummaging through his utensil drawer followed by a clunk as something was set on the counter. His unknown assailant didn't bother closing that drawer before moving on to the cupboards. Worse, he started humming.

For the first time since he'd woken up, Booth felt real fear piercing the cool detachment that had been hard won through years of training and fieldwork...

If one thing scared the shit out of him it had to be knives.

He decided it was time to risk taking a look. Without raising his head he slitted his eyes. At first the light was blinding until his pupils contracted, but then he realized he couldn't see out of his right eye. He couldn't even be sure if it was opening or not. It might just be swollen shut, or stuck shut or clouded by the blood he felt trickling down his face, but it might be worse. He knew he had a concussion, but the way his face felt it was also quite likely his cheekbone and brow might be broken, raising the possibility of bone fragments…

_Fuck it._

One eye would have to do. He couldn't see shit, looking down at the floor as he was, but his peripheral vision did catch one glimpse of a muddy work boot.

Then, some thing else scared him even more than knives or blindness.

He remembered that Rebecca was bringing Parker over.


	3. Revelations

**A/N **

**Since the story is not that long I'm being greedy with it. Here's a small tease...**

Booth had no idea how long he'd been out. Rebecca could show up with his son at any moment, and he fought to hold back a rising sense of panic as he desperately tried to figure out what to do. If this was a movie the hero would have something sharp tucked in his sleeve or otherwise find an edge to cut the ropes against.

That was all Hollywood bullshit. This was real life.

In a way, being tied up was a good sign – it meant that simply killing him wasn't the bastard's intent… at least not his first priority. Some opportunity just _had_ to present itself.

It just damned well better happen soon.

However, he couldn't resist the urge to test his bonds. At least his fingers were free. Avoiding any sudden moves, he slowly tensed the muscles in his arms and shoulders, but then a sudden sharp pain made him nearly cry out against his will before taking his breath away. He managed to just clamp down, but a sharp hiss still escaped. He swore he could _feel_ the splintered bones in his wrist grinding on the nerve. His eyes watered as he bit his lip, but the damage was done.

He heard the sounds of the rummaging to his left stop, then approaching footsteps. He slightly opened his downcast eyes again to see the pair of boots stop in front of him. The only good thing was he could see a little from his right eye, the tears apparently having loosened the bloody eyelashes. He closed them again and focused on controlling his breathing. He tried to play possum, hoping against hope for even a few more seconds, but the pathetic ruse was pointless.

He gasped again as his head was yanked up by his hair, hard. He opened his eyes and gave in to the urge to breathe heavily, no point in hiding any more.

He eyed his captor's face, stunned for a moment by what he saw. The other man gave him a tight grin before speaking.

"Bless you, my son, and just how long has it been since your last confession?"

Booth finally overcame his shock.

"Fuck you, Max."


	4. Accusations

**A/N **

**Yes, I'm dragging it out some more**

**A reminder for mendenbar – I am a 41 year old man, therefore, not addressed as "mistress" :)**

"Fuck you, Max."

"Now is that any way to speak to a man of the cloth?" the older man mocked as he let go of Booth's hair and produced a large silver coin he began flipping, catching and flipping again, one handed.

Booth's heart sank. He didn't need to a closer look to know Christopher Columbus was on the obverse.

He ignored Max's other hand which casually held his prized Forschtner-Victorinox butcher knife, the one with the 8 inch blade. Booth wasn't much of a cook, but he appreciated good cutlery, a sort of residue from his professional past, a past which now looked like it was going to bite him in the ass.

That knife cut bone almost as easily as others cut meat.

With his chin, Booth indicated Max's otherwise nondescript dirty clothing which included a windbreaker with 'Maximum Landscape' embroidered on one breast and name patch with 'Roy' on the other. Some sort of small frame automatic was tucked in his waistband. Booth tried to keep up a brave front.

"I see you traded in your Roman collar. Looks like a demotion if you ask me."

Stalling until a better idea came along was the only game in town, but stall too long and his son might get caught up. There was no point in screaming for help because Max could cut his throat and be long gone before Booth's neighbors got their deadbolts unlocked.

Max caught the coin one last time and pocketed it. He held up the knife in both hands and made a show of examining its edge before looking Booth in the eye.

"You know a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

Max set the knife aside on the counter, next to a roll of duct tape – apparently the same with which he'd been bound, and the six inch long flat black cylinder of the steel ASP baton Booth kept in the drawer closest to the door in case of unwanted guests. Several strips of duct tape were already cut off and stuck by one end to the edge of the countertop. When Max looked at Booth again, his weathered face showed no emotion.

"Big, tough, young guy like you… frankly I'm surprised I got the jump on you so easily."

Booth kicked himself again for his woman troubles. " Uh, I was preoccupied."

The other man merely smirked a little.

It was time to try to find out just what the fuck was going on. Barring some miracle, it looked like talking was his only weapon.

"Why, Max?" he quietly asked.

"Why?" Max finally showed a sliver of anger. "Why? I could ask you the same thing. I trusted you to look after my little girl. I thought I'd found the proverbial honest cop, but apparently he's still just a myth."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Surprisingly fast for an old fart, Max grabbed him by the throat in a choke hold then shifted his grip up to his jaw to force his mouth shut, slamming his head back painfully against the post. He leaned in close by Booth's ear.

"First, some ground rules. I ask all of the questions. You answer them truthfully and completely."

Max reached back behind Booth and squeezed his broken wrist. Hard.

Only a strangled scream made it past the hand on his mouth. His bladder almost cut loose.

Max's voice grated in his ear, "You are my messenger. This is the message: 'If they want to fuck with Max Keenan's family, he'll fuck back twice as hard.' It's up to you whether you get to deliver it on two feet or in a body bag."

Booth shivered, afraid he was slipping into shock.

After a few seconds Max hissed, "Ready to cooperate, to tell me everything I want to know about _them_?"

Booth grunted what was supposed to be an ok and nodded to the microscopic extent Max's death grip on his jaw allowed. The man was fucking insane. He had absolutely no idea what Max was talking about, which meant he had nothing real to offer.

Which meant he was going to die.

What Booth did next was stupid. He must have panicked. There was just no other explanation why he forgot his intention of staying cool and trying to talk his way out, bullshitting if need be.

Once Max let go of his jaw, but before he'd fully pulled back, Booth Tysoned his left ear.

The older man's only response was to grunt at the pain as he froze. Then, just as Booth tasted some blood, Max punched him in the gut, knocking the breath out of him. His gasp made him release his bite.

Max pulled back and checked his injured but intact ear. He looked at the small amount of blood on his hand and wiped it on his dirty jeans. He watched Booth without expression for a moment as he struggled for air, then he calmly raised his right hand. His eyes never left Booth's.

Max backhanded him across his broken cheek.

The world went away again.


	5. Interrogation

**A/N**

**Here's the longer chapter you've all been waiting for at 2400 words.**

Booth felt the room spinning as he came to again. He felt like he was suffocating and the pounding headache had been renewed with a vengeance, like one of those eyeball crushing sinus ones, times a hundred. All the noise wasn't helping.

He tried to take a deep breath and couldn't. The panic just below the surface started up again before he realized it was just his mouth taped shut. He reflexively jerked his head as if to shake off the gag, but he was immobilized even more than before. He forced himself to breathe slowly but deeply through his stuffy nose. He felt better, but it still felt stifling.

He'd opened his eyes, but the right one wasn't working again. He felt more blood on his face and neck and prayed that's all it was. Still, being able to see reduced the sense of claustrophobia; plus, the room settled down to a slower, less sickening roll.

He tried moving his head again and it barely budged. There was tape across his forehead and around his neck up against his jaw which secured him more firmly to the post.

The noise was coming from the running sink and dishwasher, and the TV blaring in the other room. For some reason, a familiar bit of dialogue caught his attention. The irony was cruel.

"_Looks like we'll have to send someone down. A lot of people asking for help for a man named George Bailey."_

"_George Bailey. Yes. Tonight's his crucial night. You're right. We'll have to send someone down immediately. Whose turn is it?"_

"_That's why I came to see you, sir."_

Booth's own unwelcome visitor was no angel, certainly no bumbling but well meaning Clarence.

The running water in the sink shut off, and Max turned around, drying his hands.

"Ah, you're awake. I thought I was going to have to stimulate you." He gestured toward the noisy dishwasher and then the TV in the den. "I figured we might need some privacy." He cocked an ear, listening for a moment.

"_Sit down."_

"_Sit down?! What are we..."_

"_If you're going to help a man, you want to know something about him, don't you?"_

"_Well, naturally, of course, I..."_

The sonuvabitch actually smiled. "Russ and Temperance always loved that old movie." Max shook himself and tossed the dish towel on the counter by his tools. His expression became grim again.

"Since you want to play dumb I'll lay it out for you, just so you know what you're up against." He stopped for a moment to pull a pair of battered leather work gloves out of a jacket pocket. He slapped them against one hand then donned them, a bad omen if ever there was one. "You've been turned. They got to you by threatening your son, and according to my source it looks like you're playing ball."

_What the fuck?!?_ "NO!"

Of course almost nothing came out past the gag. Booth shook his head as indignantly as his bashed skull and the duct tape would allow.

Max held up a hand to stop Booth from interrupting, as if he really could. "Now, I know you're thinking 'what source?' but just how do you think I learned Delaney was getting close to me and stalking Russ, much less how I've lasted this long in the first place?"

Booth grunted in acknowledgement even though the question was obviously rhetorical. Any tidbit Max let slip might hold the key to his survival.

Max picked up the butcher knife and started pacing as much as the cramped kitchen would allow. "One thing I was never quite sure about was whether all of the conspirators were included in Harper's notes I gave to Temperance. Now I know the answer. I'm convinced Delaney told me everything he knew before I was through with him, but Kirby? I got a little hasty with that cocksucker and didn't get a chance to find out if there were any others not yet exposed."

Max suddenly stopped in front of him and stared at him intently. Slowly, he reached out, raised up Booth's now bloody tie, and cut it off with the big knife, inches from his nose. Booth wouldn't have moved even if he could've. The severed tie fell to the floor, forgotten, and Max stayed put.

"I know how this sort of thing works. They didn't threaten your boy Parker outright, not quite. Instead, they just let you know _they_ know he's your biggest vulnerability. Then they tell you to start spying on my daughter." Max threw up his hands and began pacing again. Booth couldn't take his eyes off the flashing length of the blade. "Hell, why not? It's not that different from what you might be legitimately ordered to do anyway, right?"

Max turned for another lap.

"These bastards aren't stupid either. They use the carrot as well as the stick. They stuff some money in an offshore account for you, probably in the Bahamas." He looked back at Booth briefly. "Sorry, but you don't rate a Swiss bank." He kept going. "Call it the kid's college fund. They have a promotion sent your way. You get used to being their boy, get comfy doing petty shit, and then, before you know it, you're in too deep and you're told to look the other way when my daughter has an 'accident.'" He practically spat the last word.

Max stopped in front of him again, eyes boring in as if searching for something in his expression. "I really don't _think_ you'd do it yourself, but from what I've been able to find out about you, reading between the lines, you've done your share of wet work. You'll have to forgive me, speaking as one father to another, for not being willing to take that risk." He laughed bitterly. "I just can't let this stand without sending a message."

The SOB almost sounded regretful with that last part. Booth struggled to hold down his rising fear. Max was fully in control of himself, hardly the picture of a raving TV villain, but the man was positively paranoid. His odds of getting out of this at all were shrinking by the second.

Max held up the knife in his face again, and traced the unsharpened back of the blade across his nose. "You're going to tell me what you know about your handler and how you contact each other."

_There is no handler, goddamit!_ All he could do was moan through the gag.

Max shook his head and made a shushing sound. "Let's just skip the first round of obligatory denials, shall we? Consider them stipulated for the record so we can get down to the persuasion part."

Max pulled the knife away from his face and set it on the counter. "I can't have you bleeding out too soon on me like Kirby." He picked up the ASP baton, and cradled its collapsed black form in both his hands. "These things are surprisingly nasty for their size. I didn't think you Bureau guys normally carried them." He pointed toward the sink and chuckled. "Much more precise than your frying pan."

Booth could just make out the handle of his old fashioned cast iron skillet sticking up out of the sink. So _that's_ what had done a number on his face and wrist. He didn't carry the baton on the job. It was just something he kept at home to give himself another option short of pulling his gun on a troublemaker.

Max gave the baton a hard flick of the wrist, and it telescoped to its full twenty-one inch length with a clunk, two more sections having been nested inside the handle. The last, and innermost, section was solid steel, as well as the Mentos-sized knob on the end. Max gave it a few practice swings and smiled in appreciation. "Strike softer flesh for crippling bruises, or exposed bone – shins, knees, forearms, elbows, shoulders, skull – for more damage."

Booth tried to brace himself behind the gag…

Max spent the next minute or so carefully and methodically beating him.

It was mostly just the muscle of his thighs and upper arms but it was bad enough. He sagged against the post, only his bonds holding him up for a while. His pants were wet. He couldn't help it but his bladder had finally let go in the onslaught. He tasted blood where he'd bit his tongue, and his throat was raw from screaming behind the gag. Snot and involuntary tears ran down in his face. It was already almost as bad as what he'd gone through in the Middle East in the early '90s, and it was just the start.

As his wits slowly came back, Booth tried to use the respite to think.

If he just stuck to the real facts and denied that there was anything, he was a dead man. If he made up a boatload of bullshit to feed Max, to tell him what he wanted to hear, well, in his state he probably wouldn't be able to keep his story straight. Even if he could, he'd just confirm for Max that he couldn't be trusted, and it appeared Max only knew one way of solving that particular problem, a lethal one.

His only weapon after all was the truth, to _somehow_ make Max believe him.

The sickening thing was, he wouldn't put it past Max to cover his own ass with Bones by telling her he'd confessed to everything anyway.

And Parker was still coming.

He was torn, debating whether or not to tell Max Rebecca was on the way and appeal to his better nature. He didn't want his boy to see him like this, whether alive or dead. On the one hand Max had a code of honor that he'd thought would preclude him from hurting a child, but, on the other hand, if it was to protect his own?

Before he could finish making up his mind about Parker, Max doused him with a glass of cold water. He choked on some of the water that made it up his nose before blowing it out, adding to the mess on his face.

Max set down the glass and moved closer again. He barely wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of piss. "Ready to talk?"

_I should've shot you in front of Bones, you crazy mother fucker._

Booth nodded microscopically, and Max ripped the duct tape off his mouth, jarring his broken cheek again. He hissed then began taking deep, shuddering breaths.

Max gave him a moment to get some air. "Well?"

"I swear to God that I am not spying on your daughter, and I have not been approached by anyone. I swear it on my son's life."

Max looked disappointed. He raised the baton again for another blow.

"Wait! Please…" Something in his eyes or his voice made Max pause. He ran with the thought that popped into his head. _It had to be… _"Did it occur to you that I'm telling the truth, that they set up your source, and I might just be the bait in some sort of trap to lure you into the open?" If Max wasn't having delusions, it was the only explanation that fit all the facts.

Max dismissed it. "My source doesn't give me much, but he has _never_ been wrong. How else do you think I've survived this long? I watched this place for two hours before I entered. There's no one else out there." He looked increasingly impatient.

Booth rushed, "Even if they had threatened me I would never turn on Bones. I'd find a way to fight them, I swear."

Max's eyes narrowed dangerously, but, for the moment, he settled for more talking.

"Just how would you do that?" he mocked. "You know you couldn't count on Witness Protection for your son. Better yet, we both know you're more like me than you care to admit. I've done some homework. You would literally do _anything_ to protect your child. Why would you risk him for my daughter?"

"Because…" Booth licked his lips. His life depended on his answer.

Max grabbed his collar and got in his face. "_Why?_"

_The honest truth… _

"Because I think I love her."

Once he said it, he knew it really was true, and for a second he felt a small measure of peace.

Max let go of Booth's shirt and stepped back to consider him. After a few seconds he looked calmer. Maybe he was finally getting through to him.

Max reached over to the counter and smacked the baton against it, knob down, to telescope it back into itself. Booth sagged in relief as the other man looked at the collapsed baton in his hand for a moment.

Then Max turned and used it to punch Booth square in the balls.

Between the concussion and pulverized nuts he vomited.

When the red haze began clearing he was choking and coughing, and his nasal passages burned. He felt that old sickening, lingering deep ache that felt like his testicles were still being squeezed at the same time as his guts were being twisted and pulled out. He would've been in the fetal position on the floor if he could have

He was utterly helpless as the other man gagged him with tape again then ripped his shirt open to the waist. Insult to injury, it looked like his puke had missed Max almost completely.

Max tucked the baton in a jacket pocket and picked up the butcher knife.

"The greater the trust, the worse the betrayal. Enough bullshit. This is where it starts to get messy..."

Suddenly, Max froze with the knife barely a hair from his skin, interrupted by a single loud knock immediately followed by the sound of clinking keys and the door unlocking.

Booth nearly died right there.

_Parker and Rebecca!!!!_

He was about to find out Max's true colors.

The door swung open toward them, and her voice called out from the other side…

"It's me! I can't believe you of all people left your keys in the lock. I forgot to give you Parker's pres--"

The door began swinging shut. Bones saw them and gasped in shock, her eyes wide.

The keys and the brightly wrapped gift hit the floor.


	6. Confrontation

**A/N **

**If anyone didn't figure out the reference, the movie playing on the TV is Frank Capra's classic "It's A Wonderful Life."**

Booth let out a single sob at the sight of Bones, almost losing it in relief that it wasn't Rebecca with his son. He blinked back the tears that, for a change, weren't ones of pain. He manned up, and sent a very a short prayer upstairs. He just might get out of this alive.

Max and Bones were still standing in place, transfixed by the sight of the other. Her eyes flickered to Booth, and he knew he must look like utter hell – he certainly felt like it. Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before producing a single word. "What…?" Words failed her again, and she wobbled on her feet. For a moment, he feared she might actually faint.

For the first time, Max looked uncertain, even rattled, but the big knife nearly touching Booth's skin never wavered. He grimaced briefly. "Well… I didn't want you to have to see this, but I suppose your being here spares me having to explain it later." He shifted the blade slightly to point. "Please close the door all the way, Joy."

She pushed the door, and it closed with a click. Booth was briefly torn between wanting her to run for help and wanting her close, but the latter won out. It took a second but hearing her birth name finally penetrated her shock.

"My name is Temperance, Temperance Brennan. Just what do you think are you doing?" She held up her chin defiantly, but the effect was spoiled by the look she gave Booth – it was plain she was deeply shaken.

Max grimaced again. "I suppose that's only fair. I think I was a good father to you, but I know that was a long time ago." He took a deep breath before answering her question. "What I'm doing is what any father would – protecting his child from danger."

She was incredulous. "From _Booth_?" Then, more forcefully, "Cut him loose. Now." She took a step closer…

In response Max lifted the knife up to Booth's throat. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

Booth shook his head minutely. He could feel the sting of the razor sharp blade cutting the skin ever so slightly. The only thing saving him must be Max's reluctance to let his daughter see him in the act of butchery. Bones stopped cold.

"Why are you doing this? He's my _partner_. I heard you tell him to look after me." Her voice was firm, insistent, but her eyes were moist and pleading.

Booth didn't see how Max could resist.

But he did.

Max sighed ruefully. His expression actually became gentle. "I don't expect you to understand for a long time, if ever, but he's a threat now and has to be dealt with."

Now she was simply angry. "Just what in hell are you talking about?" she demanded.

Booth's breath caught. He saw she'd slipped forward another half step, but it appeared Max didn't notice.

Max explained his suspicions about him, including his 'source' and Parker being threatened. As he spoke she looked at him more and more as if he were crazy. Booth shook his head behind Max as much as he could even though the renewed throbbing in his battered skull nearly took his breath away. He willed her to believe in him.

Max insisted, "I have to get to the bottom of this, and I have to send another message. They _have_ to pay!"

Now, however, Booth could see the wheels were turning in her brain even as she gave him a look then responded to her father. "There is no way he would do that. I _know_ him."

Max barked a laugh. "Oh, I think there's a lot about him you don't know. He's done plenty of killing in his day."

Bones nodded. "I know he was a Ranger, in Special Ops, and was certainly no angel. I'm not stupid." Booth's heart fell. He'd told her a little bit of the truth about himself, but hearing her say it, well that still hurt. She glanced at him briefly before turning back to Max. "But I have… faith… in him. He's the best man I know."

That almost made him forget the knife at his throat.

Max shook his head. "You_ don't_ understand. You can't. You're not a parent. They've got him by the balls. He's more like me than he cares to admit, and more than he wants _you_ to know. He'd literally go to any extreme to protect his son. That's something _I_ know. Trust me."

Bones simply considered her father for a moment in silence. Booth swore he could see the wheels suddenly stop spinning. She spoke.

"Have you considered the possibility that your source has been compromised, and that, even if he hasn't, he's being fed disinformation? What better way to flush you into the open, or, failing that, to get you to take out one of your allies yourself, doing their dirty work for them?"

_Yes!!! Good girl!_ Booth had never been prouder of her. Who said brains on a woman weren't sexy? He nodded to the minute extent he could. If he hadn't been gagged he would've had to hide a grin.

And she'd advanced another half step, putting her almost in striking range.

Max showed the smallest sliver of uncertainty again. "That's what he said." He actually shuffled his feet, shifting and ending up a little farther from Booth. Better still, the knife backed off from his throat some.

Bones apparently sensed an opening. "I know we can all figure this out. Please remove the tape and let him speak." But she wasn't just counting on talk, either. Booth could see that she was subtly spreading her feet apart into a fighting stance, readying herself for the right moment.

If he made it through this alive, he promised to straighten out his love life once and for all. Soon. Life was just too damned short.

All too abruptly, however, Booth was reminded that Bones had to have inherited her near-genius intelligence from somewhere. It was just that, in Max's case, it showed up as devious cunning rather than book smarts…

Max shook his head. "I'm not removing the tape. I'm not going to let him use his charms on you, fill your head up with his lies. I know you have a real soft spot for him. Russ told me." He shifted position slightly, angling his body more away from Bones, and Booth got a bad feeling. Max dropped the bombshell.

"Can you believe he told me he's in love with you?"

_Oh shit! _ The SOB fought dirty. Booth held his breath…

Bones stood dumbstruck, almost in a daze. She actually wobbled slightly as the revelation sank in. It had hit her squarely between the eyes. "I…" She looked at Booth then back to her father. "I…"

"Don't say anything you might regret," Max said softly.

"I… trust him with my life." Her eyes were now back on Booth, big and uncertain. She stood now facing him instead of her father, her stealthy approach into a fighting stance forgotten, her guard totally down.

Booth couldn't help but stare back, albeit with only one good eye. It was far too soon. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. _You fucking bastard._

It had just registered that Max had shifted the knife to his left hand, when he suddenly struck again with another mindfuck…

"That trust is exactly why he is so dangerous. Did he tell you you're under surveillance?"

Booth stopped breathing again. _Oh fuck…_

Bones broke their connection to look at her father. "Wha-"

Max rushed, "That you're under surveillance by the FBI. Phone, email, the whole nine yards."

She looked back at Booth again – and was rocked again by the guilt she saw in his eyes before he could hide it. _I didn't know, I only suspected!_

"NO!!!!" he shouted into the gag, shaking his head. _God damn you to Hell, Max! _ He wasn't going to make her paranoid, or lodge any protests, until he had some proof. This was a time when a half truth was more damaging than any lie.

Her troubled eyes slid away from his, looking neither at him nor her father as she seemed to sink in on herself.

Booth yelled into the gag, trying desperately to get her attention again, willing her to understand. She didn't meet his eyes but did take a faltering half step forward…

The predator became the prey.

Out of the corner of his eye Booth saw Max brandish the knife as a distraction – and his right hand suddenly darted into his jacket pocket, snatching out the steel baton. Booth tried to yell but Bones didn't notice it until Max had already flicked it open to strike.

She recovered faster than Booth thought possible, simultaneously spinning and lunging forward on her left foot to kick with her right, but it still seemed too slow. Her foot was just coming around, aimed at Max's exposed left gut. She might have made it anyway, but she'd overlooked the vomit on the floor. Her foot slipped just enough to ruin her balance, and she reflexively pulled the kick and flung out her arms to catch herself.

The descending baton made a sickening _snap_ as it broke one of the bones in her left forearm. Even Max flinched at that. She gasped at the unexpected pain and almost fell. The effort to keep from falling left her defenseless just long enough for Max to use the baton one more time. It flicked out and appeared to merely tap her on the side of the head.

Stunned, though not unconscious, she did fall.

Max dropped the knife and baton and caught her in his arms, managing to somehow get behind her in the process. Booth watched in disbelief as she struggled weakly and was unable to break the old-fashioned "sleeper" hold from TV wrestling. Max grunted a couple of times with the effort of keeping her arms back while pressing the carotid on both sides of her neck to cut off oxygen to her brain. Booth's skull was proof of just how hard it was to "knock out" a person without causing real damage. Of course Max was being extra careful with his own daughter. It wasn't long before her arms and legs went limp, and her eyes fluttered closed.

Max dragged her a few feet away from the mess on the floor, and he pulled back her hair to kiss her on the forehead before gently lowering her, careful not to bump her head on the hard tile.

Booth watched through tears as Max slowly stood up and gave him an appraising look then came back, only stopping to pick up the knife.


	7. Culmination

**A/N**

**I wouldn't normally do this here, mid-story, but I feel compelled by some comments t offer some clarification:**

**Max is _not_ "crazy". **

**Given his conviction that Booth is an intolerable threat (with an impossible 'conflict of interest' as Max understands it)), everything Max is doing is ruthlessly rational. Of course YMMV about Max's single-mindedness, on which all else hangs. I discuss these issues some more over at newscaperDOTlivejournalDOTcom.**

As Max stopped in front of Booth, he glanced over his shoulder at his daughter lying unconscious on the floor, then back to him. Max let out a sigh, no longer quite so manic after the encounter.

He grimaced and ran a gloved hand through his hair. "The broken arm was an accident. I was keeping the puddle between us, figuring it would slow her down enough to give me an edge, but she charged right through it, then she slipped and threw her hand out…" Max's pained eyes drifted past Booth as his voice faded away.

Booth blinked back the wetness in his good eye. He couldn't believe the bastard seemed to be wanting _his_ understanding.

Max stood there for a second, lost in thought, then he shook himself and spoke more forcefully. "It's for her own good." He nodded to himself then looked directly at Booth again and chuckled wryly. "I don't know why I'm wasting time telling you this."

He continued as if one-sided conversation were perfectly normal. "I know what you're thinking, how can I do this against her wishes? Well, it's a hell of a thing to love someone enough to be willing to let them hate you. At least this way she'll be alive long enough to do it." He gave Booth a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Anyway, she's done fine without me this long…"

The fucker sounded positively wistful, but Booth was hardly about to shed a tear for him.

Max shifted the butcher knife to his left hand and began pulling off the right glove. "Well, we've got no more time for chatting here. She'll only be out a few minutes at most." He frowned in concentration as he fished in a pocket with the bare hand. The rummaging ended with a look of satisfaction as he pulled out the Columbus coin and set it on the counter before pulling the glove back on.

Max dropped the air of false cheer and looked at Booth in deadly earnest. "I'll get her out of here so she's not the one to find you." He took a deep breath. "You know, I really do wish things could have worked out differently somehow, but it's got to be this way."

_So this is it._ At least, Booth thought behind the gag, it'd be over with and Max would be gone before Rebecca arrived.

"For what it's worth," Max added, "with you out of the picture, your boy should be perfectly safe now."

Booth eyed the knife now back in Max's right hand._ Gee, thanks, you fucking lunatic. Let's get it over with. _His chest was heaving as some last reserve of adrenaline kicked in. He strained against the bonds, but with his broken wrist it was still pointless.

Max ignored his movements. "I have to take back what I said earlier. You're going out in a body bag one way or the other, but you have one last choice in how you get in there. I can make it quick, or I can make it… not. Nod if you want me to remove the gag so you can tell everything you know, and it'll all be over in a second. If you bullshit me – and I can tell -- I swear, for a few minutes after I cut you, you'll desperately wish you were already dead."

Max held the cold flat of the blade across Booth's cheek.

"So, what's it going to be?"

_Oh dear God…_

Max held his eye in anticipation.

Booth slowly shook his head. _No._

Max nodded in return, only looking a little disappointed. "Good choice. A man should try to keep some dignity. Quick it is."

Booth closed his eyes as the pressure of the blade left his face on its way somewhere else.

The left side of his neck just started to burn with the sharp Swiss steel when the room exploded.

His good eye jerked opened by reflex in time to see Max knocked sideways and fall to the floor. On the way down he dropped the knife, but it made no sound over the blast still ringing in Booth's ears. Max's jacket had a small red splotch just below and behind his left armpit, matched by a huge wet one on his right chest where the jacket gaped open. Booth couldn't tear his eye away as Max struggled to his knees and reached out to the knife lying on the tile between them. However, he never made it. Max sagged back to the floor and fell over backwards. His chest rose and fell twice more then stopped with a last bloody cough. His open eyes were frozen in a look of surprise.

Booth barely noticed his own bleeding neck over the sensation of his heart about to pound its way out of his ribcage. He watched for another moment, making sure Max was dead before turning to look at his rescuers. To his surprise the door was still closed.

Instead, lying on her back with her feet toward him, Bones groggily held his heavy revolver in one dangerously wavering hand still aimed in the general direction of her father. Forgetting to retrieve it from wherever it had fallen in the dark had been Max's final mistake. Her broken left arm was across her stomach which was rising up and down furiously with her panting. After a few seconds she let the big gun drop to the floor then she made eye contact with him. Her blinking right eye kept trying to cross until she closed her eyes and laid her head back down on the tile for a long moment.

All Booth could do was try to keep from collapsing and hurting his damaged wrist as he closed his eyes and said a short prayer.

When he opened them again Temperance had tottered to her feet and was slowly walking to her father's body where she swayed for a moment before bending over to check his pulse and then close his vacant eyes.

She took a step and picked up the knife. She refused to meet Booth's eyes as she came to him. As she reached behind to cut his hands free she mumbled something he couldn't quite make out.

Booth's eyes watered as the renewed circulation began throbbing against the nerves in his broken wrist. He clutched at the post with his good hand for a moment to catch his balance before letting go to tear off the gag and taking the proffered knife.

"What?" he shouted. He could just hear his own voice. In the relatively confined space the gunshot of the Magnum had been deafening. The air still reeked, pungent with burnt gunpowder.

She finally looked directly at him instead of staring off into space. She was thoroughly shell shocked, but broke out of it long enough to repeat herself loudly but uncertainly.

"I…" She gulped visibly and looked like she was about to faint herself. "I couldn't trust my aim well enough to try to shoot him in the arm." Then she appeared to forget him as she went back to her father and sank to the filthy floor beside him, her back to Booth. She was oblivious to the pool of blood slowly spreading around her knees as she bent her head. The .44 Mag hollow point round would have done catastrophic damage almost anywhere in the torso, he absently noted.

She didn't make a sound.

Booth almost fell as he bent to cut his legs free. His bruised muscles were on fire with the mild exertion, and he bit back a whimper as the blood pressure in his battered head temporarily increased. When he stood up and took the first shuffling steps he felt at least a hundred years old.

He tossed the knife on the counter and staggered over to her. He reached down to put a hand on her shoulder. _God, how can things get so fucked up so fast._

"Bones, I'm so…"

She interrupted him by shrugging off his hand. She wouldn't look at him.

After a moment, he tried again.

Clutching his broken wrist to his chest, he slowly squatted behind her right side. He ignored his screaming thigh muscles as he prayed he wouldn't fall over.

He put his good arm around her shoulders. "Temperance…"

"Don't touch me." Her voice was the coldest he'd ever heard it. She was looking at neither him nor her father but, rather, at just a spot on the floor.

He removed his hand from her shoulder and clutched his broken wrist to him again. He was fighting not to pass out as it was, and with the blood and piss and vomit he was hardly in any condition to force himself on her. Off balance, he awkwardly struggled back to his feet only to stand there helplessly. He watched her back for another long moment, but she didn't move from beside her father's body.

Everything was ashes.

Finally, left-handed, he managed to fish his cell phone out of the 'wrong' side of his jacket. He staggered into the living room and collapsed on the couch to call Rebecca, 911 and Cullen.

He really did love her, but now, for the first time, he realized that might not be enough.

**A/N**

**There is just one more chapter.**


	8. Vindication

**A/N**

**The is the final chapter.**

_The day after Christmas._

Booth woke up from his short nap disoriented. In addition to the painkillers, his internal clock was messed up by the past 48 hours, further confused by the darkening apartment. It was dusk outside and he'd fallen asleep earlier with no lights on. Bleary eyed, he checked his watch. 6:02. He sat up on the couch with a groan then hissed when he felt something ice cold.

"Crap."

The ice pack for his face had slipped off and leaked onto the couch. He tossed it onto the coffee table. It was just as well – although it helped with the pain it wasn't supposed to be on too long, something about interfering with the soft tissue of his face healing. At least he didn't need one on his balls anymore. He gingerly probed his still swollen face and tender scalp with the fingertips of his left hand. The other night, he'd hardly noticed the huge goose egg on his head from when Max had struck him the first time with the cast iron skillet, at least compared to his face. It was still there though mostly shrunken now. Thank God that one wasn't a fracture.

The most disturbing thing was the repair to his cheekbone, which had required a titanium plate and several small screws installed through one incision along the hairline at his temple and another inside his mouth along the upper jaw between the cheek and gum. He'd finally managed to suppress the urge to keep probing the stitches with his tongue. The surgeon had assured him he'd look good as new in a few weeks. The hellacious shiner he was now sporting was just the icing on the cake. He had four stitches on his neck, arms and legs mottled with ugly half-healed bruises from the baton, and, finally a blue fiberglass cast on his right forearm immobilizing his right wrist. He was wearing some droopy boxers under the lounge pants and robe instead of his usual white briefs because they were still too binding.

Feeling some cabin fever, he decided to take a short trip to collect his piled up mail. He slowly struggled to his feet, the protesting muscles making him feel like he was only in his seventies today. He stepped into his slippers and shuffled through the apartment toward the door.

He'd got home around 1PM, fortunate to have a place to come home to. Cullen had somehow managed to expedite the CSI guys doing their thing and getting the kitchen cleaned up. Booth owed him big time. He'd insisted on coming home, turning down offers from Rebecca and Cam to crash with them. He just wanted to be alone. He didn't want to go with Rebecca because he didn't want Parker to see him just yet, and he'd turned down Cam for obvious reasons. He felt like a bit of a heel since she'd rushed back from New York early when she'd heard, only to have him try to keep her at arm's length. However, he wasn't above letting her give him a ride home and getting him settled in. Although it was a little awkward given the revelation Max had forced upon him Christmas Eve about his true feelings, he really appreciated her help. No way in hell he could give her her walking papers just yet when she'd been here for him like that.

He cinched up the robe tighter before going outside. Fortunately, the mailboxes were just around the corner from his building entrance.

He'd insisted Rebecca stay away and try to give Parker as normal a Christmas as possible. Other than Cam, his only visitor in the hospital had been Hodgins. The bug guy had been so disturbed by events he actually forgot to liberate Booth's unopened dessert. Jack reported that Angela didn't come because she was forcibly inflicting herself on Brennan, a good thing. That was exactly why Booth had called her Christmas Eve after taking care of the other calls and before the cavalry arrived. Apparently Angela was the one who'd called Cam.

As to Temperance… He let out a sigh.

They'd shared the same ambulance on the way to the ER. Before his swollen jaw had virtually seized up, he'd managed to talk to her about the surveillance a little, to explain that he had not known anything, had merely suspected, and would have told her if he'd confirmed it, the rules be damned. She'd said she believed him, but he couldn't tell if she meant it – she was just so clearly fucked up by events. It was even possible that Max's tale of surveillance was just more bullshit he'd been fed, but Booth wasn't taking that bet.

Cullen had plead ignorance but promised to get to the bottom of it. Of course it should be moot now with Max dead.

He unlocked his nearly overflowing mailbox and pinned the mail to his chest with the cast. He barely looked at it for the moment before turning around to shuffle home.

She'd been discharged late Christmas Eve after having her skull x-rayed and the greenstick fracture in her arm set, and left while he was getting juiced on painkillers and waiting for surgery the next morning. He hadn't seen her since. She'd called late last night once to see how he was recovering, but she'd steered the conversation away from anything more important and ended up cutting it short when he pushed too hard. She had not returned either of his calls to her today. He'd try calling once more tonight, and, if she didn't respond, well, he was going to drive over in the morning whether she wanted him to or not, one-handed if need be. He'd just need to go when the painkillers were wearing off, and he had a clearer head.

He imagined she was trying to get a handle on funeral arrangements and getting her father's body released – and that's if things were going _well_. His need to see her wasn't about his loving her, not exactly, that cat was already out of the bag, but about telling his side of the story and getting her to fully trust him again so he could try to help her. It wasn't as if she didn't already have a hard enough time at Christmas. _God damn you, Max._

He opened his door and made it back to the couch without dropping anything.

The room had grown even darker with the fading sunset outside, so he turned on the lamp, squinting even though the glare made his head hurt. He started flipping through the three days' worth of mail: power bill, Verizon bill, Visa bill, a couple late Christmas cards, not one but _two_ Eddie Bauer catalogues, miscellaneous junk mail, then, finally, a larger, stiff cardboard mailer marked 'Photos Enclosed, Do Not Bend.'

Curious, he tore off the pull tab and three 5x7 glossy color photos spilled out.

The first was a candid of Parker on the front walk outside of Rebecca's place. He was wearing a goofy yet charming smile, and the Christmas decorations on the porch were visible behind him. Booth couldn't help himself. In spite of all that he had to be gloomy about, the picture of his son made him smile, smile even to the point of his face hurting.

The next shot was Parker in the play yard of his kindergarten, laughing with some of his classmates. It was also a very recent pic and made him smile again. It reminded Booth that he really needed to see about surprising Parker by showing up for lunch with him some day soon.

The final photo was of Parker in his big kid booster seat in the back of Rebecca's car. Rebecca was in the driver's seat with her head turned over her shoulder back toward him. They were at a drive-thru, McDonald's if he had to hazard a guess.

Neither seemed aware their photo was being taken from outside the car.

Booth's blood ran cold.

This photo obviously displayed the compressed perspective typical of a shot taken through a high powered telephoto lens.

He snatched up the mailer and flipped it over.

No return address. He tipped it up, squeezed it open, tapped and shook. There was no note inside. He double checked the backs of the photos in a frenzy.

Nothing.

Still, the implied message was crystal clear.

_Sit tight, asshole. We'll be in touch._

He checked the mailer one more time. The postmark was December 21 in Alexandria, Virginia. It had probably been sitting out in his mailbox the whole time Max was kicking his ass inside.

The mailer slipped from his fingers to the carpet.

He turned off the lamp and sat in the gloom for a long time, staring at nothing.

**A/N**

**That's the end, folks (there appeared to be some confusion). Thanks for reading No Angel.**

**I may be starting another story soon, so keep an eye out.**

**Please check out Servare Vitas if you haven't already. **


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